


(Paralogue) Assassins From Abroad

by straylize



Series: A little bit of inertia [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Attempt(s), Blood and Violence, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Canon, did i just want to write angry claude? yes, featuring a side of comic relief balthus once again, verdant moon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straylize/pseuds/straylize
Summary: When Claude gets word of an assassination attempt on Dimitri, he travels to Fhirdiad, knowing it's time to take matters into his own hands. Once there, a fierce battle must ensue, one full of surprises that even a cunning schemer couldn't predict.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: A little bit of inertia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885978
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	(Paralogue) Assassins From Abroad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aetherae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/gifts).



> we're back on the verdant moon bs. the most important thing to note is that that this is companion piece to [aetherae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/pseuds/aetherae)'s story, [maybe just hello is enough (a hello is not enough)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984963). it's not necessary for this, but does add a bit of context! and i recommend it anyway, because it's just a good read.

Before Claude even finishes the letter held in his hands, a wave of numbness washes over him. His complexion blanches completely, stomach feeling as if sinking to his feet like a weight. He’s frozen in place, mind racing as he tries to process the words written and what they mean. He’s barely cognizant of the way his hands grip at the fine parchment, fingers curling around it until the edges crumple. He’s not prepared, not for a single thing contained in the letter delivered to him by an express carrier bird straight from Fhirdiad.

That in itself presents itself as a red flag to Claude; nearly all of his correspondence with the Fódlan capital was direct, via Claude’s personal carrier wyvern. Those suspicions only grew ever strong upon seeing the letter addressed to him, with words clearly meant to Dimitri’s—yet everything on that parchment had been written with Dedue’s tidy, perfectly crafted penmanship. He didn’t have to read further than that alone to know something was amiss.

And amiss, it certainly is..

The letter is brief, merely stating that there has been an incident, but that he shouldn’t worry himself over it. Dimitri lays claim to the fact that it was dangerous, but also says he’s fine. He wanted Claude to know what was happening in his absence, but didn’t want to cause needless worry.

But Claude? Claude easily reads between each and every line. After so long, he’s more than accustomed to Dimitri’s means of deflection and methods for downplaying his own well-being. It’s something Claude understands all too well—their forced time apart as Claude prepares to ascend the Almyran throne is difficult for them both, and he too, doesn’t like to share information that will cause concern. Intent can only go so far, though. When Dimitri is unable to pen his own letters without assistance, that assuredly means he is bed-ridden, perhaps worse. While he may recover, the sheer thought is enough to make Claude’s blood run cold. The lack of detail as to what the incident was speaks to Claude directly. If there had been an accident, a train mishap, or him falling ill, it’s well-likely Dimitri would have explained in greater detail, enough to assure that he wasn’t in any real danger.

But Dimitri didn’t do that. His vague wording leaves Claude entirely in the dark, and he knows that means whatever threat Dimitri faced was likely unexpected and  _ very _ dangerous. As Fódlan’s king, it leaves Claude with one obvious conclusion: Dimitri likely had an encounter with an assassin.

The thing about assassins is that Claude is too familiar with them. He’s spent his life licking wounds and masking scars from those who would come for his life. Almyran assassins come in many sorts, but the ones he dealt with had always been cut from the same cloth. Those who believed wholly that the throne should only seat a pure-blooded Almyran, those who resented the cowardly men of Fódlan who wouldn’t even fight past their own borders if they could help it. And these days, those who truly held contempt for their half-breed crown prince, who was betrothed to the current king of Fódlan, furthering the dilution of their beloved culture. In Claude’s case, they were nearly always encounters from hired help—largely by his illegitimate half-siblings and the members of their families who would seek a path to the throne themselves. 

It’s nothing new to him, and why he’s always done all he could to stay one step ahead of anyone who would make an attempt on his life. The situation in Fódlan is quite different than that of Almyra, however. Though there are certainly dissenters to Fódlan’s unification, Dimitri’s politics, and his upcoming nuptials, they pale in comparison to supporters—they are little more than a persistent vocal minority. Most have a fair amount of reverence for Claude due to his years as Duke Riegan, having led the Alliance through the war before initiating the unification of the Leicester Alliance and Faerghus. After Byleth’s coronation placed her in the role as the Church of Seiros’ Archbishop, her vocal support for the two leaders has quelled many concerns. All of that, coupled with the knowledge that Dimitri is more than capable of sensing and stamping out the presence of any native Fódlan assassins, paints a very ugly picture in Claude’s mind. He knows that his assumption could be wrong—but his instincts say otherwise, and he isn’t one to go against a gut feeling.

The assassin who unsuccessfully came for Dimitri’s life was most likely an Almyran. Be that to hurt Claude by targeting those most precious to him, or simply due to their contempt of the borders opening between Fódlan and Almyra—this attack is targeted, deliberate… and something Claude knows he has to resolve himself. If his own people are causing harm on this scale, he cannot sit idly by. And furthermore, he will  _ not _ let Dimitri play down his own injuries as if that could keep Claude away. His duties in Almyra are important, to be certain, but regardless of whatever pressing matters he could be up against, nothing can truly stop Claude from crossing over that border when Dimitri’s in need.

It’s only momentarily that certain thoughts cross his mind—alongside the pit of guilt in his stomach. He can recall easily, the night in which he gave Dimitri the promise to protect him from harm. A promise to do all he could to ensure they’d see through their dreams together, that they’d overcome the odds they’re facing to see the world change as they grow old and grey.

Something like that can’t happen if an assassin succeeds at targeting either of them. It can’t happen if Claude fails to upkeep his promises; he knows he is the fool for making promises that are nearly impossible to guarantee. He’s always been pragmatic enough to not make promises he couldn’t keep—but his desire to see those things through with confidence and ensure  _ Dimitri  _ held onto that confident sentiment even in their darkest hours outweighed his pragmatism at every turn.

_ He knows he has to do something. _

Even as his grip on the parchment loosens and his mind starts to clear, that’s really the only thought that comes to mind. He has to do something. Dimitri survived, and the letter doesn’t indicate that whatever  _ danger _ he faced no longer poses a threat. With that in mind, he knows it’s best to believe that the threat hasn’t passed, not by any stretch. If it’s as he suspects, it’s likely there will be more than one lying in wait, slithering in the shadows and awaiting a second chance to strike. While Claude may be unable to confirm his suspicions until he sees for himself—it doesn’t seem to matter much, either. 

It’s not just for Dimitri’s sake that he needs to pursue this. He wishes to see Dimitri and the severity of the wounds himself, but he also needs to put an end to this threat for the sake of so many others. If those assassins were, in fact, to be Almyran, any public discovery of this fact could cause irreparable damage to the mending relations between Almyra and Fódlan. It would displace the trust and goodwill that the citizens of Fódlan have placed in Dimitri and Claude alike. The announcement of their betrothal at the end of the war gave them supporters and detractors in equal measures. Those who believed in both Claude and Dimitri as leaders saw the potential in their dreams, while detractors viewed Claude as a snake and a traitor who’d sought to lead the Alliance to ruin for Almyra’s sake. In the time since the war’s end, tensions have eased quite a bit—but they still tread shaky ground, unstable enough that there’s no doubting the Almyran royal family would be faced with reparations if anyone learned of their nation’s assassins targeting Fódlan’s king. 

The truth would not matter—not that Dimitri would have been a target specifically to destabilize the two nations’ relationships, and not that those very same assassins would very well likely target Claude next in order to keep a ‘half-breed prince’ from ascending the throne. Every last goal, hope and dream would be crushed under the heel of Claude’s detractors in both nations.  _ That _ is precisely why he can’t allow this situation to escalate any further.

He knows there isn’t time to waste; getting to Fhirdiad will take time. Even with top wyvern speeds, it’s not likely he can make the trip in a day’s time. It’s only moments later that the letter is tossed on a desk in his quarters, all but unimportant in favor of taking his bow and heading toward the door of his quarters. He can’t leave the country for an undetermined amount of time without any warning, lest he have to face repercussions for doing so while in preparation to ascend the throne.

And perhaps there’s also the matter of having to break plans with his mother.

Claude shudders to think of just how poorly those things will go; understanding as they both may be about his circumstances with Dimitri, neither are keen to let him shirk his duties or his training. And truthfully, for all that he loves them, Claude finds them both a bit terrifying when their tempers are flared. He needs a scheme, anything to make this quick and painless—he needs to get on his way, after all. Without the time to really plan, Claude is racking his brain for a quick scheme as he makes his way through the palace. A scheme is easier said than done when his own mind still feels fogged with worry and frustration about the situation.

Reprieve comes rather quickly as he sees Nader rounding the corner and heading down the corridor in his direction. Claude figures Nader has a meeting with his father over one matter or another— _ perfect timing _ , in other words.

“Nader, just the person I was looking to see!” Claude speaks brightly—perhaps even a little too much so. It’s not as if it’s uncommon for Claude to feign sentiment, especially not when he needs something from somewhere else.

For all that Nader can be loud and boisterous—and certainly a terrible actor—he is no fool. Having known Claude for a lifetime, there’s not much Claude can do to trick him, which is why he stops as the gap between them lessens, brow arching warily. “Not a promising thing to say when you look pale as a ghost, kiddo.”

_ Busted. _

It’s really no surprise that Nader can see through him; he’s seen Claude in some of his worst moments. As a pupil, as Duke Riegan, and just as a boy who has seen more hardship than he ever deserved just for being born the son of unlikely lovers. If nothing else, though, it’s for that very reason that Claude concedes more easily. Some semblance of the facade drops, revealing knit brows that shift into an expression of concern that far better matches his blanched coloring.

“Something came up in Fódlan. Something that could turn itself right into an international incident if I don’t take care of it.”

“... _ And? _ ” Nader goads, his gaze remaining fixed on Claude’s expression. He knows all too well that the kid that wound up with whispered nicknames like ‘Master Tactician’ back in Fódlan wouldn’t look so concerned if it were just the matter of just some diplomatic issues.

In response, though, Claude winces a little; it’s not much of a scheme when Nader is obviously on to him, but he also has no time to waste if he’s actually going to make decent time to get to Fhirdiad. “ _ And _ from the looks of it, one of my little assassin friends put a hefty target on Dimitri’s back.”

“Ah,” There is it. That’s the response Nader was looking for. When it comes to Dimitri, Claude tends to be a lot more honest and unfiltered—and he can immediately see how many layers the issue has from that explanation of the circumstances. He offers a nod, hand clamping down on Claude’s shoulder. “Go take care of business, kiddo. Can’t have an incident on our hands, much as it’d be fun to go for another round or two against that Goneril kid. I’ll clear things up with your dad, so don’t worry about it.”

“And Mom, too,” Claude adds, expression shifting into a cheeky smile as he evades further conversation with Nader. He moves swiftly out of reach.

“Now, wait a second, Kh—”

“Tell her I’ll make it up to her as soon as I get back!” Claude cuts Nader off before making a quick leap to round the corner, leaving Nader unable to finish his sentence. The general heaves a sigh, heavy and full of dread. Tiana will  _ definitely _ take out her frustration on him, likely because Claude is postponing plans he had with her. But even if it means taking a hit to his current  _ undefeated  _ streak, he’ll honor Claude’s request. “No getting around it, that kid really does get more cunning by the day.”

Truly, Nader isn’t sure how exactly he always gets roped into Claude’s schemes, but maybe that just means he was raised and trained well—that’s all he can leave himself with as he starts the arduous task of explaining what little he knows of the current situation to Claude’s parents..

  


The closer Claude gets to Fhirdiad, the more frigid the air becomes. Northern winters are truly a bitter cold that he can never seem to adjust to by his own merits. More often than not, it’s always been Dimitri’s warmth that’s carried him through. This time, however, things are far different than what he’s grown accustomed to. The cold air cuts through him, chilling him so completely to his bones that it almost feels appropriate for the situation that he’s headed into. Dimitri’s warmth will be absent while he recovers from his injuries, and Claude’s own warmth will give way to the more ruthless measures he knows will come from trying to resolve their current predicament.

It’s as if the air itself is preparing Claude to put his preferred ideals aside in favor of protecting the things that matter most with his own hands. The entire flight, he is steeling himself for what’s to come, with his hands holding an iron grip on the wyvern’s reins. It’s a journey that is somewhat arduous, especially as that cold seeps in and chills him. As he makes his approach on the capital, snow begins to fall, flakes fluttering down at steady clip. Claude doesn’t falter though, even as it gets heavier; light, sparkling flake give way to a wetter, more weighted snow that sticks to his hair and clothes, but he presses onward until he can make his landing at Fhirdiad Castle.

When he arrives, it’s just after three o’clock in the morning, a far cry from daybreak. It’s when the bustling capital is at its quietest, with residents fast asleep under the cover of heavy, quilted blankets. At this time of year, they seek to keep warm in the coldest hours. None are out on the streets, save for the castle guards who stand watch at the gate. With so little happening at that hour, it takes them both by surprise to see a visitor—a familiar one, though incredibly unexpected.

“Your Highness, Price Khalid!” the first guard exclaims in surprise, standing at attention as Claude dismounts the wyvern. He’s quick to finally dust off some of the snow that has piled; he’s nothing short of drenched—and freezing, though he manages to refrain from letting his chatter—as he makes his approach.

The second guard shifts to move, opening the gate. “I’ll fetch Dedue to guide you to His Majesty’s quarters right away!”

It’s quite clear to Claude from the outset that the guards are aware as to precisely why he’s arrived in the dead of night. If nothing else, Claude’s a bit calmer for the time being, enough so that he won’t put any added pressure on the guards or anyone else to speed this process along. “Anyone will do, you don’t need to call for Dedue specifically to escort me.”

“Oh, but I must!” the guard insists, flustering slightly at the notion of disobeying any orders—even if they are coming from the king’s betrothed. “Dedue himself insisted to fetch him promptly upon your arrival, Your Highness!”

“You win this round, Dedue,” Claude mutters the words with a sigh, though he honestly isn’t too bothered by it. He’s sure that Dedue request this specifically so they could talk; Dimitri doesn’t give Claude any limitations when it comes to entering the castle. He’s never been required to have an escort, and while he’s sure that security is much tighter following the incident—he highly doubts this is a safety measure. If anything, he’s a bit relieved to know that his arrival was anticipated; whether or not Dimitri himself realized it, at least Dedue had the sense to know that such a vague letter was far too unsettling to leave alone. Claude nods toward the guard, encouraging. “All right, go get him, then. It sounds like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, anyway.”

“Shall I escort you to the entrance hall?”

“No need,” Claude waves it off, casual as he ever is. “There are a couple of things I need to out here before Dedue spirits me away.”

“V-Very well, Your Highness! Please excuse me, I’ll return with Dedue right away!”

The guard scurries off toward the castle’s interior, and Claude can only shake his head, letting out a sound that seems to be a cross between a laugh and an incredulous sigh. The formalities are really a bit much for him at times, especially considering the fact that these very same guards were not  _ nearly _ as stiff and formal when he was still serving as Duke of the Leicester Alliance. Formal, yes—but hardly anything of this caliber. Still, he knows he can’t complain much about it. They treat him with the same reverence and respect that they would Dimitri, and it helps buy him a few minutes to do a quick investigation and start piecing things together properly right at the source. That’s exactly why it only takes a moment before Claude is turning his attention to the first guard.

“So, my friend. Has anything abnormal or suspicious happened on your guard shifts recently?” He elects not to beat around the bush; they both know the exact reason why Claude is here, and why he’d even ask such a thing. It’s all for Dimitri’s sake—to see if the things that undoubtedly happened could have been avoided, if there were obvious signs of foul play ahead of time. He may not know the details quite yet, not even where the incident occured, or how. But Claude knows it’s foul play—so he has to ask, he has to start digging, even ahead of the intel he knows Dedue will be able to provide.

“Nothing directly,” the guard responds, his gaze shifting away slightly. It’s not to say he’s looking  _ away _ from Claude, but there is a distinct air of guilt that emanates from him, leaving him unable to make eye contact. Claude can suspect why that is, but he doesn’t admonish him for it.

Instead, he waits, seeking more answers. “But there was something indirectly?”

“That’s right,” his response sounds a bit unsteady; Claude can see the guard’s composure waver slightly beneath his helm. “Every night, for… probably close to a month, earlier tonight included. I haven’t seen anything but a shadow or silhouette from the corner of my eye, but sometimes, it just felt as if eyes were boring into me. I never even sensed another person! I just assumed my eyes were playing tricks on me, or that it was the wildlife! Some kind of coincidence—”

_ Bingo. _

The guard manages to all but confirm many of Claude’s suspicions; the only things he’ll need to solidify his theory now is to see the wound, and hear what Dedue—and Dimitri—can account for. But before he can do that, he shakes his head at the guard, offering him a smile.

“I’ll tell you this right now—you’re not to blame for what’s happened. I can guarantee that Dimitri will hold no ill will toward you  _ or  _ the rest of the guards. If anything, you’ll make  _ him _ feel guilty for having caused so much worry to those who work so hard to protect him,” Dimitri is, after all, a bleeding heart in so many ways. He really dislikes having so much focus on him, and that’s why he shoulders entirely too many burdens alone. Claude knows it all too well—even with their deep levels of trust, sometimes he has to be the one to make Dimitri lean on him a bit more when he needs support. “Not to mention that the guys we’re up against here are nothing short of abnormal. They’re not easily detected—and detecting them properly is not just a tall order, but a dangerous one.”

Which is to say that it’s well above the skill level of most soldiers in Fódlan; even of Claude’s comrades and companions, there are a scant few he thinks would be able to suss them out and leave with their own lives.  _ Fortunately _ , two of those people should be nearby and able to help, though he may have to pull some strings—that will  _ also _ depend on the information he finds out from Dedue. Claude makes a mental note to not get too far ahead of himself here, shifting his attention back to trying to calm the guard down a bit. “The point is… we’ll get this taken care of in no time, and with any luck, Dimitri won’t have any threats of that level looming over him for a good, long while.”

The guard offers a look in response that seems a bit skeptical—though less because it’s coming from Claude and more because he doesn’t feel it so easy to just let go of his concerns. All the same, there is nobody who knows Dimitri better than Claude does at this point, so it’s with an unsure sigh that he concedes, nodding his head. “All right. For His Majesty’s sake, we’ll still increase the patrols and follow up better on suspicions. We won’t fail him again!”

“That’s a bit more like it. Just keep doing what you’re doing, that’s all anyone is going to ask of you,” The encouragement is quiet, selfless—the natural leadership Claude possesses easily quells concerns while never revealing his own hand or just how much fury he feels. That isn’t the fault of the guards, which is precisely why he won’t let it show, instead smiling as easily as ever. The guard himself has to wonder how Claude can remain so calm when his betrothed was gravely injured—

But the former Duke Riegan really did have a reputation for being cunning and unflappable, so it’s not as if it’s truly a  _ surprise _ , even if he’s unable to wrap his head around the ability to actually do so. In any case, he finds that Claude is as admirable as his own liege. Perhaps it’s no wonder they view each other favorably enough to want to wed despite their histories and backgrounds. Though, the guard supposes that’s none of his business either—he’ll keep to his duty to serve King Dimitri, and in the future, the same for King Khalid as well.

Silence falls with little else to be said; as Claude waits, he stretches his arms out over his head, tired and a bit stiff from the long flight. He’s also  _ freezing _ , still beholden to Fhirdiad’s frigid night air and the relentlessly falling snowflakes. He hopes, quietly, that the wait won’t be much longer—he wants to finish piecing this twisted puzzle together, warm up, and most importantly, check on Dimitri for himself.

Fortunately enough for Claude, the wait isn’t too long. After another couple of minutes, the sound of the second guard’s voice resounds in the air, breathless, as if having run the entire way. “Your Highness! Dedue is waiting just beyond the doors. Please, go right ahead!”

“Thanks,” he says easily, offering a smile and a nod. “Keep up the good work, both of you.”

As Claude walks past them both, single-minded, the sound of the guards affirming their gratitude barely reaches his ears. All that matters is getting to Dimitri, and figuring out his next course of action. As he crosses the threshold into the castle’s entrance hall, Dedue awaits, his normally taciturn expression widening a bit as he sees the state Claude is in; unlike the guards, he has a far better grasp of understanding the sight before him.

“Claude,” He starts, using the name most familiar—one that only his comrades from his days living in Fódlan still use—but Claude knows Dedue just as well by this point, so he waves off the concern with his hand.

“I know, I know. I need to dry off and warm up. Can’t carry out this mission if I wind up falling ill.” Not to mention the sheer amount of worry that it would cause Dimitri. While Claude presumes he’s sleeping at this hour, should he wake—he’s liable to reopen his wounds from the sheer panic that would come from a cold, wet Claude at his bedside.

In response, Dedue smiles a little—he could recall a time where perhaps that restraint wouldn’t have been possible. Though he keeps it to himself, he believes the time they’ve spent apart has helped them grow and mature further, motivated so well by their love for one another. “Very well. Shall we go to the guest quarters, then?”

It’s a simple suggestion, but one that holds a lot of weight. Claude has his own quarters in the castle—but they are rarely used. He and Dimitri are nigh inseparable when they’re together, with Claude never wanting to be too far, lest he needs to quell Dimitri’s nightmares in the ways only he can. Yet still, Claude’s response is a simple nod; he doesn’t want to be in Dimitri’s presence and risk waking him until he is in a state that he considers presentable enough. Causing any more worry than necessary would be a problem, given how dire it appears the situation truly is. “You can tell me what you know in the meanwhile.”

“Very well,” Dedue makes a simple motion toward Claude to indicate that they can leave the entrance hall, and takes a spot to Claude’s side, just a single half-step behind him as he begins to lay out the situation. “His Majesty wished to visit the orphanage following its restoration. Naturally, Ingrid and I accompanied him, but our guard was not high enough. When our attention was turned, he was attacked. An assassin, one with a poison blade. I suspect the diversion of our attention was orchestrated carefully to draw us away, so that they could strike him in his blind spot.”

Though Dedue’s tone seems even enough, Claude can hear the faint lamentations in his tone. Even if Claude is more than positive that Dimitri has tried to ease Dedue and Ingrid’s minds, it undoubtedly weighs on them heavily as his personal guard. Claude shakes his head as they walk, though—in truth, his blood boils at what he’s learning… or rather, what’s being confirmed.

“An attack in broad daylight. And to Dimitri’s blind side, no less,” it stings, and Claude feels his chest and throat tighten. He’d made a promise to Dimitri during the war that he would always be there to watch that blind spot. He slotted in there so naturally—no matter where they went or what they did, Claude had always taken position to compensate for that lack of peripheral vision on one side. He had saved Dimitri countless times on the battlefield. But when it counted, he wasn’t there. If anything, he can feel himself being a bit to blame more than anything—doubly so if his other suspicions prove to be correct. “I can think of only a few who would try to carry out an assasination in broad daylight. They’re skilled, and they truly believed they had the upper hand. If there was any doubt they’d fail, they wouldn’t have done so in a place like that.”

Dedue’s brow arches, curious. He’s sharp enough to pick up on the implication that Claude is familiar with these assassins. That can typically mean only two things: they are from the former Alliance, or they are from Almyra. Neither is particularly promising, but he doesn’t yet question it further. Instead, he offers a nod. “They certainly would have succeeded if not for the dagger he carries. I cannot say he is the most skillful with a dagger of that make, but his reflexes and defense were indeed enough to drive them off.”

_ A dagger of that make. _ Claude knows immediately what Dedue is speaking of; it’s the dagger Claude had given to Dimitri prior to his departure for Almyra. An antique khanjar dagger with an ornate handle and sheath—an heirloom of the Almyran royal family that Claude had kept on his person for years. He slept with it under his pillow for much of his life; it was a means of protection from any would-be assassins who thought to target him in the dead of night. Upon his departure from Fódlan, he had entrusted it to Dimitri as a quiet promise—his own means of trying to protect his beloved when he was out of arm’s reach. 

So for Claude, it brings a faint sense of relief and warmth to know that in some strange way, his plan had worked: he  _ did _ manage to protect Dimitri and his blind side, even if not with the efficiency he would have if he’d been in that spot that was reserved for him. Despite that relief, though, Claude’s expression doesn’t seem to reflect it at all. It’s something that remains completely internalized as his brows draw together in contemplation of the rest of Dedue’s words.

“You’d think they’d know by now that their schemes can’t one-up mine,” his first thought is what escapes his lips—as if to further imply his knowledge of these particular assassins. “Either way, I’m sure they haven’t strayed too far. They’re going to want to finish the job at the first opportunity that arises. I’m going to hazard a guess nobody has located their hideout yet.”

“Sylvain and Felix have been scouring the city, but it has been to no avail.”  _ As expected. _ Claude isn’t surprised to hear that in the least. Before he can respond, Dedue follows up with another question. “Claude. Just how much do you know?”

“Probably more than I care to. I can’t know for sure until I take a look at the wound to confirm my suspicions. After I get cleaned up, let me do that and I’ll explain the rest. We can start to make a plan from there.”

Dedue offers a small, affirmative nod, otherwise falling silent. Though there’s more to explain, he does believe Claude has a point—they’re working on little more than pieced-together information and speculation. He’d rather not disturb Dimitri’s rest, but all the same, he’s easily able to see the reasons why Claude  _ wouldn’t _ want to wait. It had never been in Dedue’s nature to prematurely judge a person; Claude had always been more apt and serious about things than he tended to let on when they were students. But their time fighting together in the war, the way he endlessly supported Dimitri and brought him back from the brink, even saving his life on more than one occasion… Dedue has absolutely no doubt in his mind that Claude has everyone’s best interests in mind. There’s also little doubting that despite the neutral approach he takes, Claude is both worried about Dimitri and furious at the assassins. Someone as observant as Dedue could hardly miss the subtle tension in Claude’s shoulders, or the weight of his footsteps. They contrast heavily to how light on his feet he usually is—but Dedue speaks nothing of that. He knows it isn’t his place to do so, after all.

Silence remains heavy in the air, neither of them breaking it to speak for the remainder of the short walk to Claude’s guest quarters. While Dedue contemplates what will come of their upcoming conversation and just how Claude seems to be handling the situation, Claude is already thinking three steps ahead on how to bring it to a resolution. His mind contemplates every possible option he can imagine, alongside the myriad outcomes each option could bring forth. It’s only once the two stop in front of the door that the silence finally ebbs.

“I’ll be quick,” Claude offers with a nod.

To that, Dedue simply shakes his head. “Please, take your time. Your journey was long, and the hour is still late. His Majesty is sleeping, so there is no need to rush.”

Claude is quick to wave it off with a cheeky smile; right as Dedue may be in this situation, he has no intention of taking his time. Really, he hardly has any intention of stopping to  _ rest _ before he at least sees Dimitri for himself. Not a thing in this world can stop Claude from pressing forward right now. Dedue knows that as well, considering the gesture more an act of courtesy, an empty platitude as if only to assure Claude that little will change if it takes a few extra minutes for him to situate himself. In truth, Dedue knows that Dimitri would much prefer Claude to rest—but when it comes to each other, they’re two incredibly stubborn royals who will not concede so easily.

Before Claude saunters off into the guest quarters, he turns to Dedue to offer one more thing to say. “You can go on ahead. I know my way to Dimitri’s quarters.”

“Very well,” Dedue answers with no argument—Claude’s simple words speak many volumes, after all. It’s a request for privacy just as much as it’s a plea to stay at Dimitri’s side; it’s not something Dedue can find himself arguing with. Over the last few days, he’s remained at his liege’s side as much as he can. Though he’ll likely be relieved of that duty temporarily with Claude, the least he can do is maintain that vigil in the meanwhile. “Please see yourself to his room when you are ready.”

With little else to say, the two part ways: Claude into the room so he can bathe and warm himself up from the bitter cold that chills him to his bones; Dedue back to Dimitri’s room, to keep watch over the wounded king.

  
  
  


It’s a little less than an hour before Claude sees himself into the royal chambers; those who stand guard at the door step aside with no resistance when Claude approaches. Claude, for his own part, nearly hesitates before stepping through the threshold—

For all that he had rushed to get to Fhirdiad, for his desire to see Dimitri as soon as possible, he feels trepidation now that the moment is before him. He fears the severity of Dimitri’s injuries, especially given how little Dedue actually told him of them.

But most of all, what Claude fears is  _ himself. _

He’s always been the sort to keep an even keel. Hardly anything truly gets under his skin, and when it does, he’s typically composed enough to not let it show. But with the situation being what he suspects, he isn’t sure he can keep that composure. While Claude is more than accustomed to Almyra’s assassins trying to target him and put an end to his life for an infinite number of reasons—he cannot fathom the level of depravity it takes to target the leader of an allied nation in broad daylight. Be that to hit Claude where it hurts, to destabilize relations, or simply to take out the perceived threat of ‘pure, Almyran bloodlines,’ it’s something he can’t—and  _ won’t _ —accept. The anger has been welling up with him, swirling into a muted fury, and he fears that seeing Dimitri’s injuries firsthand will only light a fire in him that he can’t control.

Claude would never see it as comparable, but there is an underlying understanding, a sort of empathy that he can feel—remembering the day in the Holy Tomb all those years ago, when Dimitri finally snapped upon learning the Flame Emperor’s true identity—it resonates. And he knows he has to make sure he does not lose his composure, even if those assassins will undoubtedly fall by his hand.

That fear and anger is waylaid when Claude actually  _ sees _ Dimitri, though. While those feelings are sure to return, the only thing he can focus on is what is before him. Dimitri looks nothing short of frail in this state; his complexion is pallid and gaunt; hair damp and matted from the beading, fevered sweat. Claude can see the other surface injuries, as well as massive bandaging over Dimitri’s chest. It runs parallel to a scar on Claude’s left side—the mark left on him as a child from an Almyran assassin who had seared into his flesh with a poison blade. While he still needs to see the wound itself, all of the evidence all but confirms his suspicions.

Yet still, he can feel his stomach turn, seeing his beloved in this state. He has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat and steady himself with a deep breath in order to keep pressing forward. There will be time for his emotions later, he knows. For now, he has to focus on what’s important.

“Has he been cognizant?” He had to have been at some point; while the letter he received was brief and in Dedue’s handwriting, he had no doubt those were Dimitri’s words. But seeing him in this state, and knowing his health is already otherwise ailing—he has to ask.

Dedue is quick to give a nod of affirmation, ready to ease at least one of Claude’s concerns on the matter. “In the daytime, quite so. Even in his present state, he will not relent on tending to at least a fraction of his duties. He has been under mild sedation in the evenings to aid in his rest.”

It’s not exactly the most comforting thing for Claude to hear, for a number of reasons. Dimitri should be resting rather than working through his injury and the accompanying fever; he doesn’t take much solace in the notion he needs to be sedated in order to rest. Claude knows Dimitri, though—well enough to understand the fevers likely intensify his still-present hallucinations and the voices that continue to haunt him. If this is what it takes to ensure he gets the rest necessary for his recovery, then all he can do is accept it. Dimitri is in good hands, after all; Fódlan’s medical science has come a long way in a short time without Rhea’s influence holding back advances, and the research they’ve been uncovering from the ruins of Shambhala have only furthered those ends.

So rather than focus further on that, he nods in turn, motioning toward the heavy bandaging on Dimitri’s chest. “Can I take a look at the wound?”

“Yes. I will unwrap it for you.” 

Dedue makes that offer for a number of reasons, though it’s primarily so Claude doesn’t have to himself. Comrade as he may be, on the battlefield and off, it doesn’t feel right to Dedue to have it any other way. He serves Dimitri as a vassal just as much as a friend, and he has grown to view Claude in the same light. He moves swiftly, yet carefully—while Dimitri seems to wince and groan from the pain, he doesn’t otherwise stir. Claude, for his part, has to do all he can to maintain a neutral expression, at a time when he wants to do nothing more than offer his own support.  _ Not yet.  _ He repeats those words in his head as Dedue reveals the wound to him—and it’s an ugly one.

The vast majority of the cut is straight through his arm, but it’s quite apparent that in the struggle, the blade nicked other spots, including a small spot parallel to one Claude has beneath his collar bone. 

_ They had aimed for the neck _ . 

That’s the first observation Claude makes. Typical of an Almyran assassin, to target from the shadows, to aim for the neck with a poisoned blade—it practically guarantees death. If not quick from the artery getting cut, then absolutely agonizing to the last breath as the venom seeps and courses through the veins. It’s a death that can be either merciful or cruel, with absolutely no inbetween. Unless, of course, one manages to evade death—and then it is agonizing for an entirely different reason.

“An Almyran venin blade,” Claude affirms as he makes the second observation—that of the wounds. He can see enough time has passed that the lacerations are beginning to heal; after being given the antitoxin and having the wounds hollowed out with magic, it still takes a fair bit of time for the healing process to bear fruit. The healing hasn’t progressed far enough for Claude to miss that it couldn’t be a venin weapon from Fódlan. His gaze shifts for only a moment to look at Dedue as he explains. “They’re forged differently than the venin weapons here in Fódlan. The edges of each blade are very finely serrated. Even if a cut  _ looks _ clean, there are hundreds of microabrasions that make the wound not only more painful, but to make the dosage of poison more effective.”

Claude pauses for a moment, closing his eyes as he collects his thoughts to explain the rest of what he can to Dedue. “These days, they’re not too common outside of assassin clans. For all that Almyrans love a grand battle, there’s not much honor in fighting with venin weapons. They’re either incredibly effective in taking lives—or terribly cruel, drawing out death in a painful, inhumane way. Assassins tend to find it to be effective, and they’re not really wrong about that.”

Dedue nods in understanding, his own expression shifting to a troubled, thoughtful expression.”I suspect I may already know the answer to this, but for what reason do you suspect an Almyran assassin would target His Majesty so?”

“I can think of two reasons, and it’s most likely a little from Column A, and a little from Column B,” even though Claude manages to keep his composure, as noble as he ever is in trying situations, there’s little denying the way he shifts slightly on his feet, as if staving off his discomfort with having this discussion. Dedue can understand that; Claude had been secretive for years about his heritage, and now the ugly side of his homeland has become a threat beyond its borders. Dedue is all too familiar with that feeling, as a man of Duscur— which is precisely why he asks his questions with no judgment. Claude, the Almyran government, and the majority of its citizens are likely not at all to blame for what is the work of assassins, most likely hired to carry out a hit for a specific reason.

“ _Column A_ is trying to destabilize the relations between Fódlan and Almyra by purposely inciting discord. If people of Fódlan caught wind of it coming from Almyra, they’d be likely to blame the royal family, or maybe me specifically—sowing the seeds of distrust. _Column B_ is to target me by harming those who matter in an effort to lure me out and kill me, like they’ve been trying to do for the last twenty years to no avail.”

“They would go so far?”

“Yeah, they would. The fact these assassins are Almyran is something we have to keep strictly confidential. As for the rest… they won’t outsmart me so easily. I’m onto them, so now we just have to finish the job before they try to.” Claude’s tone grows a little more icy than he usually allows for, but Dedue can understand that as well.

These assassins are truly incorrigible, after all. They are seeking Claude’s life and the destabilization of international relations by using Fódlan’s king as collateral. It’s likely that if they aren’t quick to act, they will return to try to finish the job. Claude doesn’t have to say that aloud for Dedue to know it’s true. 

As he begins to re-wrap the wound, he asks his next question. “What do you plan to do?”

“Find them and put a stop to this before they damage things irreparably,” Claude’s response is cold and calculated; it’s not often that he sounds as if his intent is so deadly, despite how many battles they’ve fought together.

“I have a duty to stay by His Majesty’s side, much as I wish I could accompany you for this particular battle,” Dedue is none too pleased with that thought. He failed to protect Dimitri, and for that, he wishes to pay the assassin his due.

But Dedue knows this isn’t his fight; it’s Claude’s. These assassins come from his homeland with the abject purpose of tarnishing the things Claude and Dimitri have been working so hard to build. As not just a royal, but the crown prince, there’s little doubt he wants to protect his home’s reputation as much as he wants to get revenge for causing Dimitri harm.

“Thanks, Dedue,” Claude’s expression softens, brows curving upward along with his lips into the faintest of grateful smiles. “I can’t deny I’ll miss your presence on the battlefield, but I’ll feel a lot better with you at his side when I can’t be here.”

There’s something palpable in the way Claude softens, a stark reminder of how deep Claude’s feelings run. He’d kept them so close to the vest for so many years, but Dedue had watched the feelings unfold between Claude and Dimitri not just once, but  _ twice _ . There’s an undertone of sincerity, a silent reminder that there is a reason they’re to be wed. Claude truly loves Dimitri and the trust they have in one another is something that (as Ashe and Ingrid would say) outclasses even the most noble of knightly fairy tales told throughout Fódlan.

Yet still, that draws a set of concerns all it’s own. “I hope you do not intend to initiate a fight on your own.”

Dedue speaks firmly; at a time when they need to do their best to care for Dimitri while he is unwell, the last thing that’s needed would be for Claude to bite off more than he can chew and get himself hurt or worse. While he’d like to believe that Almyra’s crown prince wouldn’t be so reckless—it’s still Claude. He’s pragmatic, but often unpredictable; Dedue can remember several instances during the war in which he’d even manage to shock Dimitri with his seemingly reckless plans.

Claude, for his part, is at least quick to assuage those concerns. “We’re dealing with assassins, likely more than one. They want me to go alone, I’m sure. But we don’t have much time to make a plan or gather some allies. If they catch wind that I’m in town, it’s hard to say what their plan of attack will be.”

For a brief moment, Dedue stands in contemplative thought before offering his solution. “I will contact Sylvain and Felix at dawn. They have been investigating the whereabouts of the assassin, to no avail. We had reason to believe that they would still be within city limits, but as I said earlier, that search has returned no results.”

“They’d be of help. Probably even  _ enough _ help, with their skill,” They’d have to discuss the best course of action for what weapons and skills would be most ideal, but they’ve both always been versatile on the battlefield; the fact that they’re near would absolutely be a boon. “I’m pretty sure they’ve taken up camp outside of Fhirdiad. We can hash out the details come morning.”

Claude knows that there’s little they can do right now. Dawn will be approaching in a couple of hours, and though his mind races with potential plans and courses of action, he knows that without Sylvain and Felix, there’s not much else that can yet be done. Instead, Claude shakes his head. “You should get some rest, Dedue. I’ll stay with Dimitri for now.”

Were this anyone else, it’s likely that Dedue would have argued. He can see the exhaustion in every facet of Claude’s features—the combination of the late hour and his extensive travel has taken a toll on him. Dedue knows, though, that there’s absolutely no way Claude would concede on this, and he can’t be blamed for it. Dimitri is someone precious to him, and they haven’t reunited in quite a while. Perhaps it’s owed to him. Perhaps Claude will rest, or perhaps he’ll just stay at Dimitri’s side. Regardless, he’s in good hands, so Dedue simply nods. “I’ll take my leave, then. When it is time for our council, I’ll send someone for you.”

It’s without another word that Dedue takes his leave, and Claude doesn’t hesitate to do the things he sees as immediately necessary. He moves swiftly through Dimitri’s quarters, navigating with the ease that comes from knowing the space well. A cloth, a bowl, clean water—once he has those three things, he seats himself gingerly at the edge of the mattress. He is unhesitating as he brushes away the damp hair that sticks to Dimitri’s forehead, placing a freshly made cool compress against his skin. If anything, or perhaps, if nothing else, Claude wants to help try to break that fever. Dimitri stirs, a frogged noise escaping his throat.

All Claude can do is soothe right now. For Dimitri’s sake, just as much as his own. His own expression is troubled, angered and pained to see Dimitri in this state. “It’s okay. You’re safe, you can rest. I’m here…”

He doesn’t want to disturb Dimitri’s sleep, but hearing those tired, pained groans—the words slip from Claude’s mouth effortlessly. In response, it seems that Dimitri settles a bit… which brings only the faintest of relief. 

Claude continues like this a bit longer, dabbing the cool cloth on Dimitri’s forehead and neck to cool him down a bit; when it seems like his temperature has gone down a bit, Claude relents a little, setting the cloth on the night table. He draws back the heavy comforter that covers Dimitri’s body, allowing some of the excess warmth to escape, and that’s when he sees it—

_ The dagger.  _

It’s locked in an iron grip; even as Dimitri sleeps, his grasp on the handle is so tight that his knuckles are white. What he currently lacks in nightmares and calling voices, he gains in fear and paranoia; he holds on to the one thing that allows him to feel that Claude is there protecting him from any threat the world has to offer.

Claude’s heart twists, cracking just a little at the sight.

He doesn’t need Dimitri to be conscious to know this. He doesn’t need it explained to him to understand that the dagger—that Almyran royal heirloom—was tethering Dimitri to the reality where Claude could always protect him in some way. Enough time has passed, and they have faced enough hardships together for him to be able to recognize the signs. And in seeing those signs? All he wants to do is bring what small comforts he can. His motions are slow and gentle, the barest edge of calloused fingertips brushing against Dimitri’s tightly wound knuckles.

“Relax,” Claude practically coos the word, tone soothing. “You’re safe. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Not again.”

They’re words of truth.  _ Not again _ comes out with a slightly hardened edge, Claude’s fury at those assassins seeping through his tone. But it’s short-lived, in favor of a sound that is familiar to Dimitri’s ears, in conjunction with a gentle touch—a warmth that even through his unconscious state, he seems to easily recognize. Dimitri’s fingers twitch a little, his grip on the blade loosening; Claude, for his part, just patiently traces his fingertips over Dimitri’s knuckles. When the full length of the dagger finally hits the mattress without Dimitri’s touch, Claude moves to pull it away from the bed and out of reach, instead allowing his own hand to take that place. Their fingers thread together, and Dimitri’s grip tightens instinctively around the familiar warmth it brings. His grip is far less strong, less oppressive in it’s overwhelming power than Claude is used to.

He feels his heart sinking further at that feeling, though he has to remind himself that Dimitri is already on the road to recovery; he could see that from the wound. Still, the breath he lets out is quiet and shaky. Now Claude is alone with his thoughts, having little else to focus on but the ways in which he was unable to protect the person he holds dearest, and how much harder he needs to work in order to both resolve the situation and take his seat of power so they can continue working toward a future in which they don’t have to part. Claude’s not sure he’ll really be able to bear it if something like this happened again.

It’s with another sigh that he leans back on the bed, eyes drifting closed. He’s tired, and Dimitri’s resting as peacefully as he can—so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to catch a little bit of sleep, he thinks. A brief nap, one at Dimitri’s side. Claude’s a light enough sleeper than even the faintest stirring from Dimitri would wake him. With the exhaustion starting to catch up to him, it seems he barely even has a choice…

  


He wonders if he’s hallucinating. 

The faintest light of first dawn peeks through the small break in the curtains, but that isn’t what rouses Dimitri from his deep, sedated slumber. 

It’s the familiar warmth he feels at his side, the weight against his uninjured shoulder. It’s the tickle of stray hairs against his skin, and the way his grip is no longer tightly wound against a curved dagger, but of another’s hand.

_ It’s Claude. _

He doesn’t even have to pry his eye open to know that. Dimitri does anyway, of course, and when he turns his head—it’s just what he expects to see. Claude, absolutely exhausted, sleeping so comfortably at his side, slotted where he rightfully belongs. It’s a bit breathtaking, really. He’d surely expected that this letter would not deter Claude from coming to Fhirdiad, but he has been so out of sorts—between trying to maintain his own cognizance to keep with his duties and how absolutely terrible he’s felt during recovery, he’d hardly even realized enough time had passed for Claude to arrive.

_ When did he? How long has he been here? _

It’s hard for Dimitri to shake the notion that he’s hallucinating it all, that it’s just a fever dream. Yet still, despite how he still feels that warm, feverish ache—Claude feels much more real. Tangible. 

There’s part of him that wants to fight that heavy, weighted ache in his body in order to be a little closer to Claude. Being fogged from sleep and medicine makes it difficult enough to move—but that isn’t the reason Dimitri elects to remain still. It’s because even through his bleary vision, even with having to turn his head all the way in order to even  _ see _ Claude, there’s one thing he can easily tell. Claude is  _ exhausted. _ It’s not all that surprising, since Dimitri is nothing short of positive that he hasn’t gotten more than a couple of hours sleep since leaving the Almyran capital.

That seems like Claude, after all.

Hallucination or not, if this Claude next to him needs restful sleep, then he intends to do all he can in order to let that happen. He knows too, after all, that no matter how exhausted Claude may be, he’s a terribly light sleeper. Rather than do anything that could cause him to wake, Dimitri just holds his hand with the firmest grip he can muster, steadfast and warm, basking in the comfort of his beloved at his side, regardless of circumstance.

It’s not long before sleep takes Dimitri once more, and when he again awakens, everything is just a little colder. The spot beside him on the bed is empty, and he’s left to briefly wonder if maybe Claude’s presence really had been a hallucination after all. The only thing that can tether him to any other belief is the dagger, which is no longer within arm’s reach.

It’s the sound of heavy footfalls that rouse Claude from his brief, but exhausted slumber. Though he’d said he would send someone to retrieve him, Claude can easily tell from the sound that it’s Dedue himself that has come. If he weren’t so tired, he could almost laugh at the predictability—of course, Dedue would do this himself, rather than sending another guard or aide. He’s sure that Dedue expected Claude to be asleep, and likely didn’t want someone else to be privy to that sight.

Not that even Dedue will be. By the time he reaches the door and gives a brief knock before turning the handle, Claude is already standing, arms outstretched over his head as he attempts to stifle a yawn. He definitely can’t say he got enough sleep—but duty calls, and when all is said and done, he can then concern himself with resting. It’s with a breath that Claude pushes back his exhaustion and latent fury; when Dedue enters the room, he’ll be met with an easy smile that drips with feigned enthusiasm. 

Dedue knows it’s fake, of course, but he says nothing of it. He can understand Claude’s feelings, and just why he’s choosing to start his day with as even a keel as he can muster.

“Morning,” Claude offers with a tone just as easy, as if nothing in the world is wrong for these brief moments. He tilts his head from side-to-side, further stretching before standing up straighter. “Manage to get any rest?”

“Briefly, yes,” Dedue responds, allowing his gaze to shift. It’s easy to see exactly where Claude himself had gotten rest, based on the indentation on the opposite side of DImitri’s bed. There is certainly a charm to the relationship they share, he thinks, but Dedue keeps his expression level. They have too much to attend to for distractions, and from the way Claude straightens his posture, he can see that they’re in silent agreement about not wasting time in tending to matters. “It appears His Majesty is still resting. Sylvain and Felix should be arriving shortly; I will have an aide here for when he wakes.”

“Right, let’s get going, then,” Claude knows Dedue will return to this room as soon as matters are sorted. The sooner their allies arrive, the sooner he can share what he knows and the sooner they can stage their attack. He doesn’t want to waste even a second, because word will spread quickly of Claude’s presence in the capital, and they’d well-likely lose their chance to put an end to this if that’s the case.

The walk to the castle’s war room is a quiet one. There is no small talk, there is no conversation at all. There is little more than the sound of contrasting footsteps—Dedue’s heavy ones and the much lighter ones brought by Claude’s agile movements. There is the occasional greeting from others on the castle grounds—maids, aides, soldiers—all looking to pay their morning respects to Claude and Dedue alike. The tone and general atmosphere remains somber despite this; even with those greetings and the sun shining through clear and stained glass windows alike, there is a certain stillness, a fragility that permeates the air. It’s as if one wrong move might snap something.

Except that  _ something _ is Claude and they are skirting a very delicate balance of keeping him in check. It’s why easy smiles can’t be believed, not when shoulders are tensed, and why the look in his eyes doesn’t carry the subtle warmth most have come to know from him—instead, the smile on his lips doesn’t meet his eyes, which are still cold with the fury of all that’s come to pass. Even as they make their way into the war room, the tension only seems to amplify. It’s hardly the first time they’ve experienced this sort of tension—but during the war, it had always been because of how cold and angry  _ DImitri  _ had been. Claude had always been serious when the situation called for it, but he knew how to bring light and levity to their meetings. It kept morale high even in some of the most dire of circumstances. Here and now, though? That Claude seems to be missing. He is tense. He is muting his anger. Most of all, he is  _ anxious _ , almost antsy to do something, anything.

That atmosphere is felt immediately when Felix and Sylvain arrive.

“We’re here,” Felix announces as he flings the door open. His mouth is contorted into a scowl—nothing unusual for him, but it certainly only puts more weight onto the strained atmosphere.

“And we’re—”  _ Ready _ , Sylvain was planning to add. But as he enters the room, the weight of everyone’s stresses is almost crushing enough to tear the air straight from his lungs. “Here, yeah.”

It’s a bit of a deflated response as both of them take their seats across from where Claude and Dedue are seated. They’ve been through their share of trials and tribulations with Claude; they’re aware more than most how serious the situation is. When the war had amped up and things got too dire in Faerghus, it was Claude that had often come to their aid. At that time, the Kingdom had been reduced to a Dukedom under the Empire’s jurisdiction. With Dimitri presumed dead and very little to fight for, they’d sought solace that Claude had been able to give, letting them fight to defend both their own home territories and Alliance borders when there were threats.

They had seen, too, how Claude carefully unraveled Dimitri from his darkest hours. When they’d discovered he’d been alive, in hiding and unwilling to act as a human, Claude had always stayed by his side. Claude had been the one to never leave him behind, to never let him push forward toward Enbarr alone. He’d risked his life to save Dimitri’s, and as a result, they’d seen the light come back to his expression. While they knew as well as Dimitri did that he would never truly be rid of his sins—that he would spend his life atoning for his mistakes as he aimed to lead Fódlan to prosperity and a better future—his darkness had left him. For all that may have haunted him, the darkness that caused him to snap, that turned him into a boar in prince’s clothing, existed no more.

His expression was brighter.. He knew how to smile sincerely. Dimitri no longer looked as if every moment of happiness was just him straining to play a part. While he was no longer the bright-eyed prince they’d befriended as children, he also was no longer the adolescent who let his torment fester until it consumed him. He was now Dimitri, the Tempest King, a king of unification—a man who knew to use his darkness as a lesson. A man who held compassion for everyone and did all he could to make the world a better place. A man who had an immense heart and ever more immense dreams. Claude had been the sole reason they could see Dimitri as he is now. He had given Dimitri hope, purpose, dreams to pursue, and an endless amount of love almost which seemed completely unconditional from their perspective.

This mattered a lot—to Felix, especially. Felix had watched his trusted friend morph from someone he looked up to into an unrecognizable monster. While others took pity or tried to sidle up to him, Felix could only watch in disgust while Dimitri lived in denial. When Dimitri snapped, Felix had felt vindicated. When he was supposedly executed, something in his own heart had snapped as hope floated away like stray snowflakes. And when they finally found Dimitri as nothing more than a bloodied monster, a shell of a man—all he could do was watch, with no way of knowing if there would ever be even a semblance of a human beneath bared fangs. 

Claude had changed that, though. Everything Claude had done had somehow pulled Dimitri from an everlasting darkness, where things could be mended. Where they had been able to start fresh and anew with purpose. Felix served House Fraldarius, of course, but he took on many duties for Dimitri personally in pursuit of continued peace in Fódlan. With time, even Felix’s icy exterior had begun to melt, and perhaps that too, had been because of the influence Claude had on all of them over the time they spent together.

That’s what makes the atmosphere so stark and jarring. Sylvain sees it, but Felix can practically feel it right into the marrow of his bones. Claude’s eyes hold a lust for revenge, no matter how calm he is on the outside. It reminds him too much of Dimitri five years ago, chilling him. For a moment, he can only see those lies, causing his scowl to deepen. He’d fully intended to assist in ridding of whatever assassin threatened Dimitri’s life, but now he has more reason to—because Felix knows that Dimitri’s heart will break if he ever sees Claude with this familiar expression lurking deep within his gaze.

And naturally, that’s a headache he is not equipped to deal with.

“What’s your plan?” Felix elects to cut right through absolutely everything in order to get the answers they need. The sooner they can hear Claude out, the sooner they can get this over with and ensure that Claude doesn’t lose sight of what truly matters to him.

Sylvain and Dedue exchange knowing glances—they’re aware of the very same things, after all. Felix has a tendency to be curt, especially when it comes to strategy meetings, but neither are blind to the situation. They’d seen it for years with Dimitri, after all. Claude is angry and tense, and in turn, it leaves Felix tense as well, agitated and wanting to be away from the false sense of stability Claude projects. It isn’t as if the two are capable of disagreeing with that, either. Claude had spent years being such a cornerstone of stability in uncertain times… so for them to see him teetering on the edge of fury is about as uncomfortable as it gets.

Somewhere beneath it all, Claude recognizes it, too. The feelings have been mounting and building over the course of  _ days _ and it isn’t as if he likes it either. It’s not just about Dimitri, of course—it’s about how it threatens the stability of what they’ve worked so hard to build, and about how one wrong move can cause all of his dreams to crumble in a way he hasn’t yet had to face up to this point. He needs to resolve this, because the stakes are so personal on every single level. But he knows, too, that Dimitri’s heart would break if he saw this fury, and he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t recognize Felix’s tense and disdainful posture. He isn’t blind to the glances, either. In truth, for all that he feels—Claude doesn’t lose his composure properly so easily, nor does he lose his honed ability to read others.

So he takes in a very quiet breath, deep and steadying as he does all he can to keep his focus on the task at hand and doing what he must as a commander.

“We go to them, and we put a stop to this while we have the chance,” His words come out without even the barest hint of levity; it’s apparent to everyone in the room that Claude is deadly serious about this situation.

“Yeah, I… kinda figured that,” Sylvain interjects first, almost as if knowing to say something before Felix retorts with a biting remark of his own. “But how exactly are we supposed to do that when we don’t even know where to look? Me and Felix have searched the capital from top to bottom. No leads, no traces of anyone at all. I’m not even sure our little  _ friends _ still here.”

“They’re not in the capital, but they’ve got a hideout somewhere close,” Claude’s words come decisively, as if he’s fully aware that this is how it must be. They may be in Fódlan, but he’s more than aware of what makes these assassins tick. He’s been their target for so many years, and enough have fallen by his hand that their methods feel almost routine. “A mission like this is something like a suicide mission to them.”

He takes a moment, pausing to keep his own thoughts ordered before he further explains to the others in the room. “Almyran assassins do  _ not _ retreat when they fail. ‘Failure’ isn’t considered an option—they succeed, or die trying. The fact that they didn’t manage their goal on the first try means they’re laying in wait, out of sight. They’ll do this for months and wait for an opportunity to strike, if they must—and we don’t have that kind of time. They’ll come after all of us to finish the job. Though I imagine they’ll be pretty satisfied if they can blindside me in the process.”

Claude has been their target for the last two decades, after all. Despite that, Claude knows that even if they were to take him down, they’d still target Dimitri in order to get their bounty… and to ensure that relations between Fódlan and Almyra never truly stabilize.

“Do you have some idea of where these assassins may be hiding?” It’s Dedue who speaks up, asking the question all three men need to know the answer to. 

Claude shakes his head in response, brows drawing together in mild frustration. In the years that Sylvain and Felix spent fighting alongside Claude through the war, they’d never seen him lose his composure. He got serious quite often, starkly contrasting his often lackadaisical approach when they were students—but it was rare to see him frustrated. Given how rare that frustration was, muted anger and even fury seemed to be things he wasn’t capable of. But on this day, it continues to permeate the air so thickly that they can feel it clinging to them. He may know the answers to most questions, but this is a situation in which he doesn’t have  _ all _ the answers. 

_ So much for that Master Tactician moniker. _ It’s a thought that briefly flashes through Claude’s mind; he never did like the title, but at times like this, when he feels like he’s lacking the intel he needs to protect all of the things that truly matter to him—it makes him loathe the existence of that title.

“That’s where you all come in. I’ve spent some time here in Fhirdiad since the war ended, but I can’t pretend I know the area well enough to suss it out. If—”

Claude doesn’t get a chance to finish his thought, not before a deep, booming voice interjects from the other side of the door, which is being flung open with force. 

“A little birdie told me you guys needed some help finding assassins! And it looks like I’m just in time for the party.” 

“—B- _ Balthus?! _ ” Claude practically sputters the name out; before he even sees that hulking, muscular figure in his line of sight, he recognizes the voice and can hardly even believe it.

Any of that heavy tension that was hanging over the room seems to drain in an instant; Claude’s deep anger temporarily giving way to incredulity at this turn of events. He hadn’t called on Balthus— _ hell _ , the last time he’d even spoken to Balthus was well over a month prior. It takes him by enough surprise that he both doesn’t piece together who filled him in on the situation… and that Balthus did not come alone.

“Hey, don’t forget about me!” Balthus’ frame had completely masked the young woman that had been standing directly behind him—and that was a voice that Claude would recognize anywhere. Bubbly, but yet just a bit incredulous herself—

“Hilda?! You’re here too?!” 

“I sure am, even if it’s  _ mostly _ because my brother wasn’t going to let it go. You know, his whole  _ ‘we really owe it to Claude after what happened with Nemesis’ _ deal? He’s still pretty stuck on that, and since  _ he _ can’t leave right now, he sent  _ me _ to accompany Baltie. As if this big guy really needs any help,” The exasperation drips from her tone, as it ever does—but Claude knows that she says all that to deflect from her own concerns. She was practically his right hand through some of the most taxing parts of the war, after all.

Lazy as she could often be, she always stuck by his side. She’d helped Claude in countless ways—so maybe it shouldn’t have been any surprise that she would find her way back now, when he really needed both the support and levity that Hilda’s presence tended to provide.

“Anyway, the point is, we’re here to help.  _ And _ not just us, either! Yuri’s already at their base, and Cyril’s canvassing the rest of the area with Lysithea. These assassins have no idea what’s coming to them, you know?” 

Hilda seems rather proud of their efforts, but the others who had already been holding their strategy meeting were not quite ready for it. Claude, for his part, is still a bit dumbfounded at the turn of events; Dedue, Sylvain and Felix all seem to be exchanging silent, knowing glances at one another. There’s little denying that Claude’s friends and former classmates are not just loyal to the former Leicester Alliance leader—they’re also incredibly astute, to manage to be a step ahead of Claude this time around.

“Okay, you’re really going to have to back up here and get the rest of us up to speed here,” in just moments, Claude went from deadly serious, to shocked, to outright baffled. His head is spinning, but fortunately, his friends are all prepared. Hilda and Balthus waste no time taking seats on opposite sides of Claude before they begin to explain what they can.

“So impatient, Claude,” Balthus still takes a moment to lightly chide, but doesn’t give him a chance to respond before continuing. “Yuri was here in the capital when His Majesty Dimitri was attacked. After getting fought off, our little assassin ran off, and Yuri followed him all the way back to where his buddies are hiding out. Got a good sense of what they were up to. I guess he figured you’d be here as soon as you caught word of it, so he sent a messenger our way to come give you a hand.”

“So that explains why you’re here,” Sylvain manages to take the words right from Claude’s mouth before he can speak them. “But what about Cyril and Lysithea?”

“No idea, pal. I’m just the messenger here.”

“Well…” this time, it’s Hilda who interjects, head tilting to one side thoughtfully. It’s only a moment of consideration, but she has a decent idea of the reasoning behind it. “If it’s anything like what happened during the war, Cyril probably wants to stop any Almyrans from causing too much trouble in Fódlan.”

She could recall pretty clearly how much it bothered him to see Almyrans having their own fun at Fódlan’s Locket. And a situation like this—an assassination attempt on Fódlan’s leader is even worse. Even if she’s not sure how Cyril (and Lysithea, by association) would have gotten wind of things so quickly, Hilda can pretty easily imagine that once he did, Cyril wasn’t going to sit back and ignore it. She also knows that whether or not he cares to admit it—Cyril does worry about the effect these things will have on Claude, on Almyra, and the future of their relations with Fódlan.

“Yuri probably contacted Teach about it,” After finally taking a moment to process the flurry of things that happened in the last five minutes, it’s with a mildly exasperated sigh that Claude speaks up. “I don’t doubt that’s how Cyril found out, and took it upon himself so Teach wouldn’t have to leave the Archbishop’s post to take up the front lines.”

As far as he’s concerned, it’s the most logical explanation. Byleth was prone to keeping everyone informed of changes—and despite his myriad denials, Cyril absolutely always has a propensity for involving himself in matters in which any Almyran’s reputation could be further sullied in the eyes of Fódlan natives. Cyril’s fealty may have always been more to Rhea than anyone else, but as he’s grown and matured, he does show a certain amount of trust and reverence for Claude’s post. He can’t help but appreciate the efforts; Cyril’s innate skill in flight and with a bow will undoubtedly help them to quell any further assassination attempts sooner, rather than later.

“Now that we know how many people are sticking their nose in this, can we  _ go _ already? Enough prattling on. Those assassins aren’t going to kill themselves, you know.” Felix’s tone is biting, his patience ever-growing thin at everyone’s ability to get completely off topic.

Claude knows that Felix is right. The longer they sit around talking, the more dangerous things get. They’d have no one to blame but themselves if lingering too long brought Yuri and the others into combat too soon; he doesn’t need his friends and close comrades to face injury just as Dimitri did because of him. Balthus and Hilda’s presence aids in putting his mind at ease, even if it’s because their banter pulls his mind away from the bubbling feeling of seeking vengeance. With their levity and battle prowess, along with Felix and Sylvain’s incredible skill and knowledge of the region—and of course, the reconnaissance being done by the others—they have no reason to waste time.

After drawing in a deep breath, as if to get his own mind completely centered—as it truly needs to be in order to command everyone effectively, Claude refocuses. “Sylvain, you head out ahead of the rest of us. Leave the cavalry behind; even bringing two wyverns on site risks drawing too much attention. Treat it as a stealth mission. Defer to Yuri for an update on the enemy positioning. The rest of us will head out on foot once we do a check of our equipment.”

“Got it.”

“Wait, Claude—you’re going on  _ foot? _ ” Even after Sylvain affirms his role, Hilda interrupts incredulously.

“Just for now. I’ll mount when we arrive. I want him to go ahead and warm his wings up first—wyverns and Faerghan winters aren’t exactly an ideal combination.” 

There’s a reason, after all, that wyverns migrate south come the Wyvern Moon. For an Almyran wyvern, unused to the harsh climates of northern Fódlan, it’s especially rough. Claude knows he needs to look out not only for his human comrades but for absolutely everyone involved with this mission. Failure isn’t an option—this will only be considered a success if they can put an end to the assassin threat without sustaining any further serious injuries—or worse. “Everyone, make sure you’re completely prepped. We’ll head to our destination once everyone makes their way to the entry hall.”

Claude’s sure it won’t take them long to do last minute checks. They came to this meeting knowing exactly what lay ahead, and Claude’s fierce determination only further cemented that they wouldn’t be wasting any more time than necessary. As most file out of the room, all that remains are Claude and Dedue.

“Dedue,” Claude starts, but he doesn’t get a chance to even finish his sentence before his thoughts are finished easily.

“I’ll continue to look after him in your absence. While I do not wish to lie to him—I will not tell him of your plans. If I may, though… I do not think it wise to hide it from His Majesty for too long. While he  _ is _ prone to needless worry, he will be quite upset if he learns of this mission from someone other than you.”

Those words twist in Claude’s chest like a serrated blade. He knows Dedue is right—Dimitri won’t take it well. He’ll likely be very upset that Claude took up arms for the sake of vengeance in his name; he’ll be upset that Claude is falling into the very same trappings that had caused them both so much pain all those years ago. All the same—that’s the very reason he doesn’t want Dimitri to yet know. Not while he’s recovering. Not  _ ever _ , preferably, but if there’s something else he’s learned in their time together, it’s that Dimitri is disarming. Enough so that Claude can’t hide much from him.

That, and he would be breaking a solemn promise he’d made to Dimitri near the end of the war—the promise that he’d keep no secrets from Dimitri following the reveal of his lineage as an Almyran royal. It pits two sides of Claude against one another: Claude, the scheming master tactician—and Khalid, the Almyran crown prince and Dimitri’s betrothed. 

“Thank you, Dedue. When the time is right, I’ll take care of it.”

Dedue’s brow arches slightly at Claude’s evasive words, but all he can do is hope that he’ll make good on what he says. It’s for both their sakes he feels that way, but Dedue knows better than to overstep his boundaries, especially with respect to Dimitri’s relationships. “Very well, then. You should be off, just as I should begin overseeing breakfast, as His Majesty will likely be waking soon.”

  


When Dimitri finally, properly wakes, he isn’t sure if he should be disappointed or not.

The warmth he recalls from the moments just after daybreak has given way to nothing more than cold sheets and pillows. Briefly, he wonders to himself if perhaps he really  _ did _ hallucinate or dream of Claude’s presence—a thought quelled quickly by the evidence that proves otherwise.

The faint indentation of another’s form in the sheets next to him, the smell of Claude’s shampoo lingering on the pillow, the lingering way his hand doesn’t feel cramped from gripping a dagger, but from feeling Claude’s calloused fingers against his skin. Just as his brief waking earlier, it’s all further confirmed by the fact that dagger is no longer within his grasp. There’s no doubting it—Dimitri is certain that Claude was there with him, earlier this morning.

It begs the question of where he is now. When Claude is in Fhirdiad, he stays in Dimitri’s room. Despite some thinking it lacks propriety, it’s an arrangement that they’re both comfortable with; they both sleep far better in one another’s presence, with limbs entangled and sharing their body heat to stay cozy. While Dimitri supposes the severity of his injuries doesn’t lend well to their indulging their habits, he can’t deny to himself that it’s disappointing that Claude isn’t in sight. It’s as if he was a phantom, an apparition—and at a time like this, beneath it all, Dimitri really wishes for the comforts of his beloved.

“You’re awake. Good morning… Dimitri.” The sound of Dedue’s voice cuts through Dimitri’s thoughts, snapping him to attention. The distraction is apparent, enough so that he hardly notices the way Dedue still seems to struggle with addressing him in such a familiar way, even though Dimitri himself had been the one to insist on it.

“Ah, good morning, Dedue.” He tries to push the thoughts of Claude’s presence aside, but Dedue doesn’t miss the shift of his gaze, as if Dimitri is looking for signs of Claude.

In truth, it doesn’t surprise him. What Dedue has learned over the course of  _ years _ is the bond those two share is unlike any other he’s ever seen before. Many of their comrades have found love, but they all seem to pale in comparison to the connection Claude and Dimitri share. They can sense each other’s presence and feelings so keenly that they never seem to hide anything from one another unless it involves confidential political matters—and Claude wasn’t exactly hiding his presence while in the room with Dimitri as he slumbered.

“If it’s Claude you’re looking for… he arrived in the dead of night. He elected to use his guest quarters, as not to disturb your injuries.” His words are chosen carefully; Dedue truly has no intent of lying to his liege, after all. He speaks in truths, carefully evading Claude’s current location. It’s all he can do in order to keep DImitri’s concerns at bay, while also answering to the suspicions he clearly bears.

“I see. He really does worry far too much.” Dimitri can recall the way Claude looked, carefully resting next to him just before daybreak. It’s only right to him that after such a long journey, Claude gets the rest he needs. If doing so means spending one more night apart, he can bear it. Better that he’s comfortably rested than staying close if he’s only going to worry about aggravating injuries.

“I believe he was well within his right to worry. That is simply Claude’s way—he will worry twice as much when you downplay your circumstances.”

“I know,” Dimitri responds in kind. Despite the fact that he never wants to cause Claude that sort of worry, he can’t help but feel warmed, endeared by the lengths Claude is always willing to go through for his sake. Love certainly has a funny way about it, but the truth of the matter is that it only makes Dimitri’s love for Claude even stronger. He knows he has to do better, that he has to mind his health and safety more in order to assuage those concerns. 

It’s a hard habit for him to break, even despite knowing that he needs to.. He spent years living as a ghost. An apparition. A beast. He lived only for his vengeance with absolutely no regard for his own well-being. He stayed alive only so that he could die satisfied by taking Edelgard’s head by force, with his own hands. Even if that meant hunting his own meager rations in the bitter cold of a Faerghan winter. Even when it meant pressing forward, beaten and bloodied, patching up his own wounds solely so he wouldn’t bleed out. From head to toe, he bears the scars of the life he once led, and to this very day, he still struggles with the value of his own life. He has reasons to live—to truly want to live a full and prosperous life—but there is a difference between consciously knowing what he wants, and overcoming the barrier of his own habits.

That’s why he overworks himself, why even on the nights when the dead aren’t calling to him loudly, he hardly sleeps. It’s why he forgets to tend to his meals without a reminder from his vassals and aides. And it’s why he could face a near death experience with only the fear that he’d not get to see his beloved one last time, and why he continues to downplay the severity of his circumstances.

“He and I can discuss it once he’s rested. I don’t wish to disturb him, and besides—we have quite a bit of work to do today, anyway.”

Dedue nods, withholding a sigh.  _ Workaholic _ is practically an understatement for what Dimitri does, but there’s no helping it. Instead, he can only do his best to ensure Dimitri take care of himself. “Yes, of course. Breakfast should be ready shortly, and then we can begin on looking over those proposals.”

At the very least, Dedue knows the busier Dimitri is with his work, the less likely he is to realize that Claude is not on the premises. He would prefer to leave the explanation of the circumstances to Claude. Some things are better for him to not interfere with, and this situation in particular is the epitome of that belief.

  
  


The assassins’ hideout is only about forty-five minutes away from Fhirdiad’s outskirts on foot, leaving Claude convinced that every last hunch he’s had up to this point has been correct. They’ve taken to setting up their base in a cavern, deep and dark—but close enough to the city that they can slip in and out with ease in order to track their target.

The march to said cavern is largely quiet, with Claude himself oscillating between his muted fury and desire to make quick work of their opponents—and faint, causal laughter at the stray comments Hilda and Balthus make to lighten the mood. Felix, on the other hand, keeps quiet. He scoffs at the poor attempts at levity while keeping his gaze almost solely focused on the path ahead of them. Once in a while, he looks at Claude, only to shift away—it makes him feel sick. He can still see what Claude is doing, and is still all too reminded of Dimitri. A boar in human’s clothing. And it continues to bother him almost more than it ever did with Dimitri.

Five years of war and endless hardships, but Claude had never lost his composure before; he’d always been the sort to know when to put his own feelings aside. Felix is more than aware that Claude isn’t wrong for wanting to eliminate these threats. What sits poorly with him is that it's as much for vengeance as it is for the safety of his betrothed, his comrades and both their nations. As it had been with Dimitri, it seems as if he’s the only one who is disgusted by it. He has to shove aside his own dark thoughts—that maybe he and Dimitri are made for each other because they’re so similar. Or that perhaps, Dimitri has rubbed off on him in all the wrong ways. That part bothers him more than anything else; at this point, he knows they’re both capable of being better than it. It may be a feeling that passes eventually—a sour reminder of a sour past, and one that in turn, dredges up old feelings that Felix would’ve preferred to leave in the past, along with the war and the hell it had brought them. If anything—Felix  _ does _ hope this sickening feeling passes, as he loathes the idea of this becoming something of a regular occurrence.

Halfway through their march, Balthus manages to lighten the air briefly by roping Claude into conversation—questions about Tiana, when he can visit Almyra on his own… being a general thorn in Claude’s side, but enough so that he can dump his frustrations into using Balthus as the punching bag.

“Hey there, Feeeeelix,” Hida uses that as an opportunity to try to brighten Felix’s mood. As much as anyone could, at the very least. He’s a tough customer and always has been, but she isn’t blind to the extra tension he seems to be bearing. For all that Hilda can be lazy, selfish and a pain to deal with in her own way, she isn’t completely ignorant to the situation, or what has Felix so tense. They’ve fought alongside one another plenty of times over the years. She certainly hasn’t forgotten the ire he held for Dimitri when he was at rock bottom, nor the gratitude he had for Claude through some of the war’s more difficult moments. Claude was the one who managed to pull Dimitri from that abyss, and while he never voices it—there isn’t a soul among their numbers who is unaware of Felix’s relief. There’s a reason that Felix still serves as both a sword and shield for Dimitri, after all.

“If you’re going to prattle on uselessly, save your breath.” 

Though Felix’s words are as sharp and cutting as his sword, Hilda remains undeterred. She speaks, her tone low enough to remain out of Claude’s earshot. “He’ll be okay, you know. It’s not going to be like what happened with Dimitri. It  _ is _ pretty weird to see him so angry, but there’s a lot riding on this.”

“How he ends up is none of my business. If he wants to seek vengeance like some kind of wild animal, that’s his choice.”

“I don’t think it’s just about vengeance. He had plenty of chances to do that during the war, but he always kept it together.. This is bigger than just Claude, you know? Not just because of Dimitri’s safety, but like, Fódlan and Almyra’s stability could crash from this. He’s gotta be a little freaked out that all his work could go down the drain if this goes wrong.”

Hilda is right. Felix knows she’s right, too—Claude has always been a voice of reason, pragmatic and cunning, even when taking great risks. It isn’t at all like him to let his emotions control him like some feral beast, but if he’s still looking at the bigger picture, beyond just how Dimitri was injured, then perhaps it’s understandable that his composure has cracked a bit. It’s easy for Felix to see the worst in people, but he’s learned enough to know that sometimes, he’s a bit short-sighted himself. “Are you done? I’d rather get this over with… without all this useless talk..”

Whether Hilda is right or not, he isn’t so quick to admit it. Call that pride, or just annoyance at his recognizing that he’s been jumping to his own conclusions based on the tension in the air filling his lungs with anxiety. Yet still, despite his sharp tone, Felix’s expression softens slightly… just enough that Hilda knows her words reached him. And that’s enough.

There aren’t many people Hilda is willing to fight for—but Claude has always been reliable in ways others never were. Even at times when he seemed so strange and questionable, he pulled through and never let anyone down. She believes in him, enough so that one day where the world gets under his skin visibly isn’t enough to shake her faith. Right now, she thinks, Claude needs everyone to believe in him more than ever—because this really is truly so much bigger than all of them, even if the ones they’re targeting feel no different than opponents they faced throughout the war.

She knows better than to draw any further annoyance from Felix, so she doesn’t argue the point with him; instead, she falls back just a bit to walk alongside Balthus.. Truth be told, everyone's a little on edge  _ because _ of the implications the situation has. They’ve fought bigger and more sprawling battles, sure, but the knowledge that failing at silencing these assassins in time could plunge the continent back into war once again is unnerving. A war between Fódlan and Almyra would be an ugly one that would likely tear both nations apart and destroy not only all the progress Claude and Dimitri had made, but perhaps their entire future. Nobody wants that, not a single one of their comrades. It’s precisely why so many got involved so quickly, being called to action within days, and why despite all the tension hanging in the air, she and Balthus both are trying to seek a bit of levity in their travels.

Eventually, though, silence falls over the group. The closer they get, the more their small group begins to shift in mentality, preparing for a battle that they can only hope will be swift. It isn’t long before the two wyverns—Claude’s, and Cyril, atop his own—come into their line of sight. Soon after, they can make out the forms of Lysithea, Sylvain and Yuri. 

“Finally made it, huh?” Yuri’s the first to call their attention, when they’re close enough to hear one another, but far enough from the cave’s entrance to remain out of the assassins’ earshot. As ever, he seems to skirt that line between being serious and being teasing. Even with the stakes as high as they are, he can’t help but be exactly who he presents himself as.

Claude’s the one who steps to the front, standing before Yuri. Today, he’s far more serious than usual—though it’s what Yuri expects, given the situation they’re dealing with. “It took longer than I would’ve liked, but I owe you for getting the recon done in the meanwhile.”

“Well, we can discuss compensation for  _ that _ later,” Yuri offers a wink and a devious smile. A nice payout of gold to help out his comrades in Abyss will do nicely—but it’s not as much of a priority as he’d have anyone believe. Yuri is no different than anyone else in that sense, after all. There’s plenty he owes to Dimitri and Claude both, regardless of his outward attitude. “I’ve had a good couple of days to get the lay of the land and what the inside of that cavern looks like. It’s deep, but not terribly wide, so we should be able to do a clean sweep in one fell swoop.”

Claude nods, gaze briefly shifting toward the cavern’s entrance. “What do their numbers look like?”

He knows that it’s likely not all of their enemies will be there in the cavern at once. Past experience has taught him that they’ll often take shifts in order to monitor targets and find times to strike. How many are on the premises at that moment will determine how many of them stay behind to clean up any late returns. Not a single assassin will make it back to report to whoever hired them, Claude intends to make sure of that much.

“Fourteen of them, by last count. And since His Majesty’s quarters aren’t anywhere accessible on foot, they’ve been biding their time.”

Somehow, it’s a blessing in disguise. It wouldn’t be impossible for the assassins to get onto the castle grounds—Claude knows firsthand from how many times they breached palace security how possible it is. But the castle’s layout and placement of the royal chambers don’t lend well to being able to make that many stealth movements without being caught. Before they shared those quarters, Claude’s preferred method of sneaking in to see Dimitri was via wyvern, coming through the window—the assassins would have a hell of a time working around the castle architecture without being seen by anyone; even Claude couldn’t manage that  _ with _ a good working knowledge of the castle grounds. For the assassins, the difference in architecture is undoubtedly a detriment, which means they’re likely weighing their options for how to best finish the job.

A small smile creeps up on Claude’s lips, almost matching Yuri’s devious expression. “Let’s decide on our formation and make quick work of this, then. I’ve got a charming king waiting for me back in the capital, after all.”

Quick work is undoubtedly a bit easier said than done. It takes time for them to work out a formation that will be effective in the tight spaces of a cavern—especially when they  _ are _ still outnumbered. After some careful deliberation, Claude and Cyril both take to mounting their respective wyverns, everyone readies their weapons as they start the assault on the Almyran assassins.

“All right, we’ll do this just as we agreed on,” Claude reiterates as they stand before the cavern’s threshold. “Yuri and Sylvain will take the left and right paths, remaining as undetected as possible. Hilda and Felix will take up the frontal assault, with myself and Cyril right behind that. Lyisthea will handle long range damage and support. Balthus, you’ll keep watch for any reinforcements aiming to flank us and provide support as needed. And when we find their commander? You guys can leave  _ that _ one to me.”

It’s a solid battle strategy for their numbers. Yuri and Sylvain’s stealth and speed lend well to their positions, Felix and Hilda’s strength are best for the front lines. Every piece seems to fall into place, allowing them for an assault that is far less risky than what they’d have been in for without the extra hands on deck. When all is said and done, Claude will be nothing short of grateful for how swiftly his friends leapt into action—though first, they have to survive the encounter itself. They have to put an end to this twisted plot, and send a message to those who would hire assassins for such a dirty job: they  _ will not _ succeed. 

As per their plan, Sylvain and Yuri run ahead, taking their respective paths. It’s not long before the sounds of battle—or perhaps swift assassination—echo through the tunnels. They’re familiar sounds to those well-acquainted with the throes of battle. A lance piercing through flesh, the splatters and drips of blood, the agonized cry of death as a body hits the ground with a thud—that’s down one tunnel. From the other side comes the sound of a gusting, Cutting Gale, another agonized cry, and the muffled call of Yuri antagonizing them to their last breath. 

With two down rather swiftly, it leaves them with twelve to go, assuming there are no other reinforcements—and the remainder of their unit barrels forward, through the main tunnel of the cavern.

“Is that—it’s Prince Khalid!” One of the assassins announces Claude’s presence as soon as he’s within their line of sight. There’s no hiding it; not when he’s atop one of the royal family’s signature Barbarossa-class wyverns and dressed to the nines in Almyran battle armor.

“Well, so much for surprises. And here I thought maybe you’d take a little longer to recognize me,” The tone Claude takes sounds as light as ever, but the words are still biting and sarcastic. He, naturally, was aware they’d instantly recognize them, but the look of shock and fear in their eyes as they realize they’re about to fight for their lives makes it all the more worthwhile to confirm his presence in their hideout.

As the assassins scramble for their weapons—venin bows, daggers, swords—Felix and Hilda waste no time in pressing forward to take down their opponents. The sound of clashing steel soon reverberates in the air.

“You guys were pretty dumb if you thought  _ Claude _ wouldn’t catch on. I mean,  _ seriously _ , targeting  _ King Dimitri _ of all people in broad daylight? Pretty bold, if you ask me! But… oh well! Maybe the Goddess will take pity on you in the afterlife, or something.” Hilda speaks so flippantly of their deaths as she swings her axe in the direction of one of the assassin archers.

“Just shut up and fight!” Felix quips as his sword clashes against another blade of similar make. The assassin is undoubtedly strong and skilled in his swordplay; he goes toe-to-toe with Felix’s movements. It’s as if his fighting style had been watched, studied, and they’d been prepared to counter it. The assassins, it would seem, had been prepared to face the most known fighters of the Faerghus region.

...Of course, being prepared for that meant that they weren’t nearly as prepared for the wildcards—those unaffiliated with the region. Those who shouldn’t have come to interfere. They don’t quite have the tool set to face off against everyone. Claude and Cyril’s styles are easier for them to counter as wyvern riding archers—though both make use of their battle prowess to skillfully evade shots and use their own arrows to block escape paths. The likes of Hilda, Lysithea and Balthus undoubtedly make it more of a challenge than the assassins’ anticipated—a short-sighted error on their part that will not go unpunished.

As one assassin tries to make her break for the tunnel Sylvain is working through, Cyril shoots at her feet, stopping her in her tracks. “Just because we’re both Almyran, that don’t mean I’ll go easy on ya! People like you are the reason Almyrans got such a bad reputation, you don’t even deserve to call yourselves that!”

“Cyril…” Claude’s gaze shifts slightly, for just a brief moment. It’s a show, a real sign of the way Cyril has grown. He can recall all those years ago, when Cyril had been so bitter towards Almyra, and Almyrans in general. How the war had caused him to be orphaned, and how Claude’s own father did nothing to help him, despite being king. He’d failed his own people, and Claude hardly blamed Cyril for that bitterness. To see him now, championing the idea that these people who sow discord and cause a divide—that many Almyrans are still good despite their failings—it shows the way things have changed. How Claude’s leadership during his time as Duke Riegan, and how his efforts to foster better relationships between Fódlan and Almyra can really change things.

There’s a lot Claude needs to say to Cyril, but those words have to come some other time. They’re certainly not suited for the battlefield, and it seems to him that Cyril doesn’t even notice that Claude was listening to him.

“Get ‘er now, Lysithea!” Cyril calls out, and Lysithea is quick to follow up that quick obstruction with magic, the Dark Spikes coming up in all directions to not only stop the assassin’s escape, but to pierce every part of her and bring her to an end.

The battle rages onward, the clashes fierce. Every single assassin is well-trained. They’re evasive and fast, and each fight doesn’t come without a few scrapes, bruises and lacerations. The assassins tire, but so do Claude and his comrades, which causes faint slips and errors that slow their progress from reaching wherever their commander is hiding. The sounds of magic, steel and arrows continue to echo in the air; when Sylvain and Yuri finally reach the main tunnel, the fatigue starts to show. Even Felix, who lusts for a good fight, slows up a little; with an exchanged nod, Sylvain slides into his place, giving Felix a moment of reprieve from the nonstop fighting.

“Looks like you need a hand there, pal!” Balthus calls out from behind. It’s really no surprise that Felix is a bit worn down when they’ve all been fighting for quite a while—and because Felix always puts his all into battle. Balthus has done his part to subdue and take down the reinforcements, but being closer to the back line has helped him preserve his energy.

“Don’t. Don’t you even  _ dare. _ ” The response Felix gives is disproportionately aggressive, but he—unfortunately, he believes—knows what Balthus is up to.

“Aw, come on! You’ll feel better. A little boost, while we wrap things up here!”

“No, I don’t need it! I don’t need your invigoration, or your stupid epithets, either!”

The threat doesn’t stop Balthus, or his self-imposed, sometimes title as the Twinkle-Toed King of Grappling. It isn’t often he can use his age-old White Heron Cup victory from his own school days—but as far as Balthus is concerned? There’s no better time than now to use it. Felix is one of their strongest fighters, for him to lose steam before their final showdown would be a problem. Besides that, he knows Claude wouldn’t have asked for Balthus to provide support in any other way. For a fight where they’re under-manned, they need to hold onto their energy whenever they can. So really, he thinks it’s the least he can do.

Silly as it feels on the battlefield, Balthus does the dance that allows that magic to work—though it seems to have the wrong effect on Felix. It certainly does rejuvenate Felix… albeit, just not in the way he’d hoped. 

“You idiot, we don’t have time for that right now! You look like an absolute fool!”

“...Yeah, maybe. But it got your blood pumpin’ for a fight, didn’t it?”

Felix snarls, pointing his sword in Balthus’ direction. “Do that again and I’ll invigorate  _ you _ . With my  _ blade.” _

“All right, all right! I get it! Now hurry up and get back into the fray. Claude’s going to burn too much energy if you’re not on the front lines!” Balthus wonders if maybe his dance was a little  _ too _ invigorating for someone as… tense as Felix. All the same, he supposes that having some ire directed at him won’t really matter, so long as they can finish this job. Felix needed a boost, and he got one, even if he expects to get chewed out by Felix for a while, once all is said and done. He can take it—even Balthus knows that it’ll be an empty gesture, considering how much that dance is doing for Felix’s energy on the battlefield.

Every little bit counts, given the situation they’re in. The battle is long and arduous; blood is spilled on both sides. They’re covered in it—both their enemies, and their own. Sticky with sweat, and muscles burning from the fierce grips on their weapons, each and every one of them fights as if it’s their very last until only one assassin remains.

He is nameless, as many assassins of Almyra are. A name is of little worth, when they are nothing more than a hired blade, after all. They give up their identities, their families—nearly everything they have for the sake of the kill. They live in the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike. Some do it for the pay, some do it for their own beliefs. None do it for pride or honor, because there is no honor in what they do; they are snakes, and they are well aware of that fact.

This man, perhaps better than all the rest. When Claude makes his approach, pulling ahead of the others, he can make out that face all too well. His piercing, crimson gaze and the jagged scar that stretches from his jaw right to his nose. This assassin is one Claude has met before—many, many years ago. He’s much older than what Claude remembers, but there's no getting around the fact that this is the very same assassin who made an attempt on his life when Claude was but an innocent child. Hired by the mother of one of his half-siblings in order to remove his chances at taking the throne, he had failed, if only because Claude had been lucky.

The scar Claude bears in the nook between his left shoulder and his collarbone, faded and faint now—but it’s the one he remembers getting all too clearly. The assassin had attempted to slit his throat with a venin blade, but missed his mark, having not been prepared for the restlessness of a six-year-old boy. That wound very well could have killed him—but the young Prince Khalid was too tenacious to die. Now, twenty years later, it seems this assassin had done the very same in order to take down Dimitri.

He isn’t sure if it’s satisfying or infuriating.

“I should’ve known it was you, but I figured that such a failure of an assassin surely would’ve met his end by now.” Claude’s gaze narrows, focusing on the man in front of him with a fire in his eyes that none among his comrades has ever seen before. As it turns out, this vendetta is more personal than anyone could’ve possibly realized.

“And I should’ve known that such a stubborn brat wouldn’t know when to quit. Do you think anyone’s forgotten? You are a  _ traitor _ to Almyra, you half-breed  _ cur _ ! Not a single Almyran with any pride will accept your ways. They’ll never forgive you for abandoning our lands to rule a country of savage cowards, nor to you getting in bed with the Fódlan king! You callously take our lives, your own countrymen, to protect that savage beast!”

The assassin’s words are meant to shake Claude to his very core. To call his loyalty into question, to sow the seed of doubt and lead him into believing that he has no place or right to inherit the throne. Truth be told, it causes a pang in Claude’s heart that nearly causes him to flinch, to hesitate for a brief moment. It could be true that his rule wouldn’t be accepted. He knows many will think him to be a traitor for leaving to fight Fódlan’s wars. He knows many have yet to see the merits in Dimitri, and how fervently he will fight to better both their nations.

“So your solution to that is to try and kill them both? You have the logic of a  _ child _ ,” Lysithea is the one to interject, not giving Claude a chance to respond for himself. Everyone can see, with ease, that this man is trying to shake Claude’s resolve—and they’re ready to prove two things: That the people of Fódlan aren’t savage cowards, and that they believe in everything Claude is aiming to do.”

“Seriously, wouldn’t assassinating the King of Fódlan and the crown prince of Almyra just… make things more of a mess?” Balthus adds.

It’s Yuri who steps in, adding his own input. “If destabilizing both countries because you’re a little angry about something like bloodlines is really worth it, then be our guest. But I can promise, you won’t get very far. If you survive this, you’ll have more enemies than friends on both sides of the border.”

“If ya really think Almyrans are really gonna sing your praises for any of this, you don’t know ‘em well at all. Pretty sure the only savage one here is  _ you. _ ”

“It’s a  _ lot _ of effort for, y’know, not very many returns,” Hilda is the last one to pipe in—they can only say so much to a man who isn’t likely to listen to reason, after all. “But I guess you can try to have it your way. Maybe.”

The assassin snarls, seeing little value in acknowledging what they have to say. He’s been hired to do a job—and even if he’s the last man standing, if he can finish off Prince Khalid as well as King Dimitri? He’d be eating well for a while. And that’s why he does nothing but let out a laugh as he lunges forward, venin dagger in hand. 

Before his attack can connect, he’s stopped by a sharp pain, the dagger being knocked from his grip. It’s from behind Claude that Cyril shoots an arrow with precision, right into the assassin’s wrist and providing Claude with the opening he needs.

“You’ve been mistaken for a long time, old man. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Claude’s gaze further narrows, the fires of fury only lit further. That feeling of being shaken subsided quickly, thanks to his comrades' swift response—it gets Claude right back on track, and perhaps more determined than ever. “But the people of Almyra are better than you give them credit for, and it isn’t as if they’d champion an assassin so cowardly that he’d target Fódlan’s leader just to get to me. You hid in the wings for two decades, and couldn’t face me yourself. Let this be a lesson to my detractors. If you target Dimitri, then you’ll have to deal with  _ me. _ ” 

Claude draws back on his bow, grip so tight that his hand practically trembles. He keeps himself steady though, using the opening that Cyril provided him to take his shot. And that shot will carry years’ worth of pent up fury. From the first time there was an attempt on his life, to the years of ridicule and being treated as an outsider in his own home. The whispers of his being a traitor, and criticisms that the Fódlan’s king becoming the Almyran king-consort would destroy them—and of course, the fact that the man in front of him not only tried to take his life, but the life of his beloved.

It will not stand.

And it will send a message to anyone who attempts something so bold again.

“Take your final bow, because this  _ is _ your curtain call!” He channels his fury into that first shot, aiming it square at the assassin’s eye; he fires the arrow and it’s within seconds that he can feel the hot splatter of blood against his skin. But Claude doesn’t flinch, aiming a second arrow for his chest—something he calls insurance to finish this quickly. There’s a second splatter of blood, the agonized groan—and then, nothing. A twitch as the assassin falls to the ground, twenty years of vengeance on both sides finally coming to an end. 

It’s Sylvain who checks the body, confirming that their enemy no longer breathes, and Balthus who calls the mission a success. Claude remains silent though, drawing in a shaky breath as he seeks to regain his composure. The fury fades from his eyes, but the expression in his eyes isn’t any clearer. There is no relief, no remorse—he doesn’t feel regret for his actions.

Perhaps it could be considered pity. Pity that so many people could hold hatred over so little, that they could cause so much suffering just over one man of mixed heritage. Pity, that he too, had held on to anger and frustration to the point he could take lives and not feel that sense of remorse he so often did during the war.

“...Claude? You okay?” Hilda calls out for his attention, realizing that while everyone else is expressing their relief and making their arrangements to clean up and give the fallen at least a proper burial—he’s silent.

But Claude only offers a smile in response; there are feelings of his that are still too deeply personal to share with the others. And with no need to concern them over it, he shakes it off. “Just fine over here. Let me just dismount and I’ll help out. I’ve got some business to take care of once we get back, so we should make it quick.”

“If you’re that worried about him, just go. Not like we can’t handle this. You’ll just get in the way if you’re going to daydream about him, anyway.”

“Thanks for the concern, Felix. I… think? But it’s fine. They’re my countrymen, so I should make sure they’re buried properly.” Even if they likely don’t deserve that care. Even if Claude was all-too-happy to end the life of that man, and even if he intends to bring that venin dagger back to Almyra as a symbol of what happens to those who betray their nation and alliances for the wrong reasons. That brief moment of feeling his humanity slip away is enough for him to want to, at the very least, give them what any fallen warrior deserves.

  
  


It’s evening by the time Claude returns to Fhirdiad Castle and cleans himself up. He takes entirely too long to bathe; as if even washing the splattered blood isn’t enough to leave him completely clean. He did what needed to be done—but the takeaway he pulls from it all is that there’s always been a reason he’s kept his composure. Even though it was a fight that was necessary, even though they had so many reasons to eliminate that threat, and even though the cause of that threat was someone who had long been a direct danger to him—

He really doesn’t take joy in killing. The thrill of a fight can be fun, but after five long years of senseless war, he wants the journey toward a better future to be more peaceful transitions than violent rebellions. Moments like this will be inevitable, he knows. He and Dimitri will always face threats on their lives due to their positions, and Claude has more than a few enemies that he will have to silence—but he will carry that burden in his heart and aim to minimize his very personal feelings.

The thoughts weigh on his mind, even as he makes his way to Dimitri’s quarters. Before entering the room, he draws in a breath, but puts on a smile as he swings the door open. 

And there Dimitri is. Conscious and cognizant, sitting upright in what seems to be anticipation of his arrival.

“Claude!” 

That’s all it takes. Seeing Dimitri smile, hearing that faint sense of elation—Claude’s own heart immediately begins to settle, far more than it has in days. Really, it feels like it’s been an eternity to him.

“Sorry I’m late,” He responds, offering a bit of a mirthless laugh as he closes the door behind him. He steps gently, but wastes no time taking up a spot next to Dimitri on the bed. “I just had a few things to take care of first. Some pesky little fleas.”

Dimitri immediately knows what Claude is implying. He understands even without saying—Claude had been gone all day, and in light of the circumstances and lack of any word from Sylvain or Felix, it was a pretty obvious deduction to make. They had found the assassins. Dimitri reaches for Claude’s hand, taking it in his with a gentle touch. But before he can forgive Claude’s tardiness and offer his understanding, he notices something else. “Your hands… they’re trembling.”

It’s an observation that speaks volumes. Dimitri deduces right away—Claude isn’t quite okay. Whatever happened on that mission is still weighing heavily on both his heart and mind. It’s hard for him to even recall the last time he felt Claude’s touch so unsteady. His mind flashes back to the Battle of Gronder, the way Claude could barely keep himself upright after taking Fleche’s blade in order to ensure Dimitri’s life. Was it then? He’s pretty sure that was the last time—though Claude doesn’t seem to be injured this time, not any more than some cuts and bruises, from what Dimitri can see.

“Maybe a little. I guess you’ll just have to hold them until they stop, right?” 

Claude offers him a smile, and it just further proves what Dimitri is thinking. They can hide very little from each other, after all. But it’s also painfully obvious to Dimitri that whatever happened during that battle, Claude doesn’t want to talk about it. Not yet. He has no doubts that Claude  _ will _ , and when the time is right, he’ll listen.

“I may not want to ever let go, even after they do stop. But I suppose I’ll have to oblige.” In the meanwhile, Dimitri will do just as he’s always done. He’ll support Claude in the ways he can. He’ll listen when Claude wants to talk And he’ll be eternally grateful that the man who was once seen as nothing more than a questionable schemer is, in fact, the most reliable man he’s ever known. 

They have time. They have a lifetime, after all, to sort out the details. So for tonight, he’ll bask in the warmth of Claude’s presence and in turn, ease his beloved’s shaken heart. And for Claude’s part, he will remain by Dimitri’s side, ensuring they both sleep as sound as they can. He can do so, knowing the assassin that has had Claude in his crosshairs for twenty years will no longer be a threat to either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone read this to the end, give _yourself_ some kudos! 20k+ words and i have no idea if i accomplished anything. this is! wholly self-indulgent, took me nearly half a year to write, and all came about because i just wanted to explore claude dealing with the kind of anger canon doesn't let us have. what better way than because his mans was in danger?
> 
> it also just so happened to work out that this is ready for christmas, so! merry dimiclaudemas, even though there is absolutely nothing festive about this at all!


End file.
